Believing Bullshit: How Not to Get Sucked into an Intellectual Black Hole (15 page)

It might seem, then, that Turner's version of theism offers the atheist nothing to deny. The atheist says, “There's no such thing as God,” to which Turner replies: “Yes,
I agree
, there's no such
thing
!”

Still, Turner thinks there remains
something
affirmed by theists that atheists can deny, and this is that “the world is created out of nothing.”
⁸
“God,” suggests Turner, is the name of whatever is the answer to the question “Why is there anything at all?”
⁹
Turner sums up what he thinks any decent sort of atheist has to do:

It is no use supposing that you disagree with me if you say, “There is no such thing as God.” For I got there well before you. What I say is merely: the world is created out of nothing, that's how to understand God. Deny that, and you are indeed some sort of decent atheist. But note what the issue is between us: it is about the legitimacy of a certain very odd kind of intellectual curiosity, about the right to ask a certain kind of question.
¹⁰

Note Turner's concluding remark that
the
issue between the atheist and a theist like himself is whether a deep curiosity about such questions as “Why is there something rather than nothing?” is even legitimate. In fact, Turner then goes on to characterize the atheist as a person who isn't engaged by such questions, as a stodgy, unimaginative lump who remains steadfastly unamazed by the fact that there is anything at all. But if
that's
what an atheist is, then I'm not an atheist, and neither are most philosophers (which will come as a surprise to many of them). Personally, I'm fascinated by the question “Why is there anything at all?” and have been for as long as I can remember. Does that mean I am really a theist?

No. For a start, I acknowledge the
possibility
that there is no answer to that question, because no answer is required. Perhaps, as is sometimes the case with philosophical questions, there's something wrong with the question (perhaps asking, “Why is there something rather than nothing?” is a bit like asking, “What's north of the North Pole?”).

But in any case, even if the question is proper (and I acknowledge it might be), and indeed, even if it does have an answer, does it follow that the answer is what Turner calls “God”? Because Turner simply defines “God” as whatever is the answer to the question, it follows that his answer must be yes. But notice how very thin a notion of God Turner is working with. To say God might exist is to say no more than that
there might be an answer
— an answer about which, Turner adds, nothing positive can be said.

The truth, of course, is that most apophaticists aren't just suggesting we take the question of why there is anything at all seriously. Nor are they simply saying there's an answer to the question. Even while professing ignorance about the transcendent whatsit (I'm trying to avoid the word
thing
) they suppose is the answer, they usually have a great deal to say about it, even if it's all heavily qualified and couched in the language of analogy, metaphor, and so on. Indeed, most apophaticists appear to think this transcendent whatsit is worthy of our worship and gratitude, which raises the question of how, if “God” is a label for some unknowable, incomprehensible reality, they can be in a position to know that worship and gratitude are appropriate attitudes for us to have toward it. In fact, if Turner is right and the world is created, doesn't the appalling amount of suffering the world contains give us excellent grounds for adding two more characteristics to the list of those apophaticists say their God
is not
—their God
is not
worthy of either our worship or our gratitude?

THE UNEXPLAINED ANALOGY

Another example of
Moving the Semantic Goalposts
is the
unexplained analogy.
In my introduction (appendix B), I outlined an objection to a certain sort of argument for theism—the argument that the universe appears, for example, to be fine-tuned, and that an intelligent designer god provides the best available explanation for its fine-tuned character. If god is supposed to be a nontemporal
agent—a sort a cosmic superintelligence that creates time and space—then we run up against the objection that talk of such a nontemporal agent appears to make scarcely more sense than, say, talk of a nonspatial mountain.

To recap: for something to be a mountain requires that it have parts spatially arranged in a particular way. It must have a summit and sides, for example, which requires that one part be
higher than
another. Strip away this spatial framework, and talk of there being a mountain no longer makes sense.

Similarly, to talk of an agent is to talk about a being that has beliefs and desires on the basis of which it more or less rationally acts. However, the concepts of belief and desire are concepts of psychological states having temporal duration. But if desires are states with temporal duration, how could this agent possess the desire to create the universe? And, we might add, how did this agent perform the act of creation if there was not yet any time in which actions might be performed?

In order to deal with this sort of difficulty, we might, as some theists do, insist that theistic talk of an “intelligent designer” should not be understood
literally.
We are positing not literally an intelligent agent but something merely
analogous to
such an agent.

But does this shift from literal to analogical talk succeed in salvaging the explanation of fine-tuning? Compare a similar case. Suppose I try to explain some natural phenomenon by appealing to the existence of a nonspatial mountain. Critics point out that talk of nonspatial mountains is nonsensical. I roll my eyes and insist they are guilty of a crude misunderstanding. I am not talking about a
literal
mountain, oh, no, but something merely
analogous to
a mountain. Does this save my explanation?

Not yet. Suppose my analogy is this: that the guilt of a nation concerning some terrible deed weighs down like a huge mountain on the collective psyche of its citizens. This is an interesting analogy that might be developed in various ways. Notice that it
does
actually avoid the conceptual problem that plagues the literal version of the claim. Guilt, it would appear, really isn't the
kind of thing that occupies space in the way a literal mountain does. There's no conceptual problem with talk of a nonspatial mountain of
guilt.

But remember—I'm supposed to be explaining some natural phenomenon by means of my analogy. Suppose the phenomenon is a major earthquake. People wonder why the earthquake occurred. I maintain the earthquake is a result of the vast weight of this something-analogous-to-a-mountain pressing down and causing a seismic shift.

Now that my analogy is spelled out, it's clear my explanation is hopeless. Collective guilt can't cause earthquakes. The weight of a real mountain might perhaps cause an earthquake, but not my something-merely-analogous-to-a-mountain. That which is merely analogous to a mountain doesn't possess the same set of causal and explanatory powers that a real mountain possesses.

You can now see why those who try to explain features of the universe by appealing to something merely
analogous
to an intelligent agent have some explaining to do. The onus is surely on them to explain:

1) what the intended analogy is,

2) how the analogy avoids the charge of nonsense leveled at the literally understood version of the claim, and

3) how this something-merely-analogous-to-an-intelligent designer is nevertheless supposed to retain the relevant explanatory powers that a real intelligent designer would possess.

At least my explanation of the earthquake by appealing to a nonspatial mountain answered questions (1) and (2). However, I failed to explain how my something-analogous-to-a-mountain could cause or explain an earthquake.

Often, theists don't even bother to explain (1) and (2). When asked how we are supposed to make sense of such a nontemporal agent, they just say, “Oh, dear—you're guilty of a crude misunderstanding.
You see, talk of an intelligent designer is not meant to be understood
literally.
It's merely an analogy.” As if insisting that it's an analogy is,
by itself
, sufficient to deal with the problem raised! It is not.

Unless these theists can provide satisfactory answers to these questions, the problem with their explanation remains. Their introduction of an unexplained analogy brings the debate about intelligent design not—as its proponents seem to imagine—up to a level of great sophistication and profundity but down to the level of evasion and obfuscation. In truth, they're engaging in little more than a bit of sanctimonious hand waving.

None of this is to say that the use of analogy might not provide us with a useful tool in thinking about god. My objection is not to the use of analogy per se but to the shift from a literal to an unexplained analogical meaning as an immunizing strategy to deal with objections: “Ah, you've misunderstood. You see—it's merely an analogy. So—
problem solved
!”

APPEALS TO USE

One of the most intriguing methods of immunizing religious claims against possible refutation is to insist they're
not really claims after all.
If no claim is made, well, then, there's no claim there for the theist to be mistaken about or indeed for the atheist to refute.

If you choose to immunize your religious beliefs against rational criticism by this strategy, appealing to the philosophy of Ludwig Wittgenstein is useful, as Wittgenstein stressed the variety of ways in which language is used. Yes, language is used to make claims, but it's used in many other ways too. Wittgenstein warns us against being seduced by superficial similarities between sentences into overlooking these deeper differences in use.

So if, for example, your claim that God exists is met with some devastating-looking objections, you might try this:

Ah, I see you are guilty of a crude misunderstanding. You have understood me to be making some sort of claim that you might refute. But of course, as Wittgenstein explained, and as sophisticated religious people like myself know, “God exists” is not used to make a claim at all. The sentences “God exists” and “I believe God exists” might look similar to sentences such as “Electrons exist” and “I believe Mount Everest exists,” but pay close attention and you will see that their use is very different.

But if religious language is used not to make claims but in some other way,
how
is it used? And, crucially, why does this difference in use entail that what is said is then immune to refutation?

Let's look briefly at three suggestions: that “I believe in God” is used (1) to express an attitude, (2) to make a promise, and (3) to express our trust.

Expressing an Attitude

Expressivist theories crop up in several areas of philosophy. Take moral discourse, for example. We say that things are morally good or bad, right or wrong, and so on. Of course the sentence “Killing is wrong” looks very much like it is used to make a claim—a claim that, we suppose, is true (the killing of innocent humans, at least). However, if those words are used to make a claim, and if claims are made true by facts—for example, if my claim “The pen is on the table” is made true by the fact that the pen is lying there on that table—then we face the philosophical puzzle of finding the peculiar fact that makes “Killing is wrong” true. Where is it? And how do we find out about it? Readers who have some knowledge of moral philosophy will know these are not easy questions to answer.

Philosopher A. J. Ayer developed an ingenious solution to this puzzle.
¹¹
He maintained that although “Killing is wrong” might
look
like it's used to make a claim, it is actually used very differently—to express an attitude. Consider:

Hoorah for the Red Sox!

Boo to killing!

Neither of these sentences is used to make any sort of claim. They are used, rather, to express how we feel about something.

On Ayer's view, moral talk is also expressive. “Killing is wrong” is used, in effect, to say, “Boo to killing!” We use the sentence to express an attitude of disapproval toward killing. But if “Killing is wrong” is used expressively, then what is said is also neither true nor false. But then no mysterious moral fact is required to
make
it true. Puzzle solved! Ayer's theory of how moral language is used is called
emotivism
or, for obvious reasons, the
boo-hoorah theory.

You have probably already guessed how an expressivist account of how “God exists” is used might be used to immunize what is said against any sort of refutation. True, the sentence “God exists” looks superficially similar to, say, “electrons exist,” which is used to make a scientific claim. And when it comes to such scientific claims, it makes sense to ask what the evidence is for supposing it is true. The claim that electrons exist could also turn out to be false. But what if, despite the superficial similarity between the two sentences, “God exists” is used differently? What if it is used not to make a claim but to
express an attitude?

What sort of attitude? Perhaps an attitude of awe and reverence toward the universe. Perhaps to say, “God exists” is, in effect, to say, “Oh, wow!” in amazement that the universe exists at all. If that's how “God exists” is used, then, because no claim is made, the theist cannot be making any kind of error, and
the atheist is left with nothing to refute.

So, if having said, “God exists,” the theist is faced with an objection, they might try to sidestep that criticism by saying, “Oh, dear, you appear to have misunderstood. You have supposed I was making some sort of
claim
that you might
refute.
No, no, no, I was … expressing an attitude of awe and wonder.”